


addendum

by tanyart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Platonic Kissing, Self-cest, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 09:38:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7635313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little heart to heart that never happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	addendum

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme! Original prompt [here](https://overwatch-kink.dreamwidth.org/679.html?thread=298151#cmt298151). This version here has been edited and cleaned up from the one posted over there, ahaha.

“Enemy teleporter’s down!” Tracer’s voice chirps over McCree’s earpiece, which is the damnest thing to hear, seeing as he had stepped through it seconds before her announcement. A Talon operative shouts behind him, gun firing, but the portal blinks shut between them.

McCree opens his mouth to answer Tracer, but he drowns in a dizzying wave of blue and white pixelated images. He usually doesn’t have a problem with teleportation, no need to suffer from vertigo in this line of work, but he feels unbearably sick now. There’s loud static in his earpiece and with some effort, he brings up his metal arm to tear it away.

Just like that, the white noise is gone, ringing his ears with silence until a sharp, pulsing blast cuts through his hearing—the sound of a complete teleportation. McCree collapses on cold, hard cement, his body lined with shimmering white squares of broken matter. The air smells musty, much different from the thin icy wind of Nepal’s mountains.

He doesn’t think he anywhere near Nepal now.

McCree rolls to his knees, revolver already in hand. The initial disorientation is wearing off, just enough for him to take quick stock of his surroundings. Descriptions flicker through his mind in partial words and half-formed thoughts; warehouse, weak sunlight, cluttered, dust motes in the air like stars. _Familiar._

He sights movement in the corner of his eye and swings his arm to point his gun at it; _not alone._

A boy. Far corner of the room. Away from the light.

McCree checks back his aim, lowers the mental crosshairs of his mind from the kid’s head to the shoulder. And it’s only until then that he takes a closer look.

The boy has a pistol in both hands, pointing it steady at McCree. His breathing is even, gaze unblinking, and he won’t miss if McCree doesn’t move. McCree knows this. He is _acutely_ aware of this. The shock checks back his trigger finger better than the actual intent of not firing.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he mutters, lowering his gun. He catches his thumb through the trigger guard and lets his revolver dangle harmlessly from his hand.

“What the _fuck_ ,” echoes a younger Jesse McCree, voice lighter by years but more vicious to make up for it. He doesn’t mirror the gesture of surrender, still too wary about the situation—though that’s no huge surprise. He must’ve been too wary about every aspect of his life at this point. His new Blackwatch uniform is still crisp and unstained from lack of use, pressed iron edges not quite settling over his shoulders. He looks like a kid playing dress-up.

It’s surreal. McCree doesn’t remember ever looking this pissed off, and he _has_ been plenty pissed off a couple of times in the past few years. The kid’s got a palpable air of resentment.

McCree looks him over, turning the years in his head. So it hadn’t been quite right to call _him_ a boy, but he certainly isn’t a full-fledged adult either. McCree can’t bring himself to look at his younger counterpart—just barely legal—and think _McCree_. He stares, and all he sees is _Jesse-the-brat_ , still the kid with one stubborn foot in the grave that is ( _had been_ ) the Deadlock gang, while the other half is slipping slowly into Blackwatch.

(Though, McCree thinks, Blackwatch becomes another grave in the years to come. But by then McCree has had practice jumping out of them before he gets buried _with_ them.)

“Drop the gun down. I ain’t askin’ twice,” Jesse says, snapping McCree out of his tangled thoughts.

“Been listening to Commander Reyes, huh?” McCree says, noting Jesse’s two-handed grip. He places his revolver on the ground, more to placate than out of any sense of danger. Damn absurd, being threatened by his own self. “You’ll be able to aim one-handed soon enough.”

“Shut up,” Jesse says, rough tone still more suited for the Deadlock Gang than Overwatch. His words spill out fast, still unnerved by a man appearing out of thin air. “Where did you come from? You’re not supposed to be here.”

 _Here._ McCree looks past Jesse, memory settling over him like an old blanket. He knows this place. The cluttered storage room is filled with scraps of abandoned equipment, a good layer of dust on everything, but it’s a quiet space, one of the few on Gibraltar’s Watchpoint.

“Got a feelin’ you aren’t supposed to be here either,” McCree murmurs.

Jesse ignores him. His damn hair falls over his eyes and he flicks it away with a quick jerk of his head, the brim of his hat tilting. At McCree's huff of laughter, he scowls into the collar of his uniform, which is obstinately rumpled, the top buttons undone out of spite. It gives him a look of someone who’s in a poor disguise, like someone’s tried to wrestle him in clothes that don’t fit, and Jesse’s not likely trying very hard to fit in them either.

Unkempt and uncaring. No wonder Reyes had called him a _mestizo callejero,_  p _erro callejero_. Every possible variation of stray mutt.

Jesse bares his teeth, impatient. “Who the hell are you?”

A stray mutt that has marked its territory, apparently. Another word pops into McCree’s head, unbidden. He remembers his first few months in Overwatch. _Lonely_.

“Take a guess,” McCree says, taking off his hat to show more of his face. He wonders, idly, if he is recognizable beneath the beard and longer hair.

Jesse narrows his eyes in suspicion. He hesitates, lowering his pistol to his side in disbelief.

“...Dad?” he asks, dubious.

“ _What?_ Oh, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Though, in the scheme of things more likely to happen, it isn’t a bad guess. McCree fogoes caution and steps forward. He swipes the hat from Jesse’s head, tossing it next to his own on the ground. Aside from the wear and tear of one, they’re perfect copies. He leans in close, making sure Jesse’s gaze doesn’t move from his face. “Try again, _son_.”

“You’re not helping any,” Jesse says, staring. He sounds stricken, as if the truth is slowly beginning to dawn on him.

McCree goes in for the kill, deadeye and all.

“Really? Then let me help you out; Dad used to sing for you until you were six. Then you told him to stop, and you’ve regretted it ever since. You dream about places that aren’t the desert. Your first kill happened behind a bar, five shots, but you like to say it only took one. You hate Commander Reyes, but you reckon that’s only because he reminds you of-”

Jesse points the gun at him again, the business end of the muzzle pressing against McCree’s temple. He clicks the safety off, the color high in his face. “Enough.”

“If you shoot me now, it’s gonna get real awkward for you in the next fifteen years or so. Just so you know.”

The safety clicks back on.

“How,” Jesse begins, faint, “How is this possible?”

Good question, perfectly valid. McCree settles for a vague truth; “The future’s wild, kiddo.”

The gun wavers. The violent gleam in Jesse’s eyes blinks away and McCree impatiently pushes the pistol aside, metal hand closing around the barrel. Jesse’s eyes fall to the prosthetic arm, his gaze lingering a little too long, and McCree easily yanks the gun out from his grasp.

“Hey!” Jesse exclaims, but he doesn't fight back.

McCree ejects the magazine and finds it empty, not a single bullet to it’s name. He smiles, unsurprised. No way Commander Reyes had let him wander the base with a loaded weapon, but he had always been good with bluffs. He hasn’t felt this fond of himself in ages.

Unable to help himself, he places his hand over Jesse’s head, ruffling the hair. The gesture isn’t going to be a familiar one now, but it will be, once Jesse meets Reinhardt. And, much later, when Reyes lowers his guard after a successful mission, looking maybe just the tiniest bit proud. “Good boy.”

Jesse purses his lips, angry. But that’s probably the default these days.

“Now,” McCree says, setting the gun aside. “Your back pocket’s been glowing blue for some time. You know anything about it?”

“What?” Jesse glances behind him, a strangely naive move for someone being so suspicious. He reaches into his back pocket and digs out a circular device, soft light pulsing through his fingers. It glows with the same blue shade as a Vishkar teleporter.

McCree frowns. He’s no hand at hard-light technology, but the _time_ isn’t right for such a thing to exist. Or, at least it shouldn’t. It almost looks like a smaller version of Lena’s chronal accelerator, which already makes McCree uneasy for days.

“It wasn’t like this before, I swear,” Jesse says, holding the device with a new level of delicacy. “...What is it?”

Figures.

“How did you get this? Don’t tell me you-” but McCree already knows, even before Jesse squares his shoulders in surly defiance.

“Lifted it,” Jesse says, sounding smug. “Level four security. Easy as pie.”

McCree remembers causing a bunch of trouble around the base in his youth, but he doesn’t remember stealing that particular object. He doesn’t remember ever running into his future self either. He wrestles with himself for a moment, but he ends up taking the device from Jesse’s hand with an exasperated sigh.

“Commander Reyes is going to kick your ass. _Our_ asses. And he’s gonna invite Captain Amari to make sure we’ve suffered properly.”

Jesse balks at the mention of Captain Amari, but bringing up Commander Reyes again seems to renew his spite.

“Well, Reyes said he was going to use me, but he ain’t now,” Jesse says hotly, “I’m losing my skills, rotting here in this base. I might as well be in behind bars. They got me doing fucking _chores_ like some prison b—but you know this already.” He scowls, throwing McCree an accusatory glare. “Don’t you?”

McCree turns over the device in his hands. Maybe there’s a cooldown? He shrugs at Jesse, glad that he’s old enough now to admit it; “There are easier ways to get the commander’s attention.”

Jesse opens his mouth, closes it, and makes a frustrated noise. He can’t refute McCree, not for all the indignant foul-mouthed protests in the world.

“Fuck you,” he says, backing away. He kicks a piece of scrap metal, sending it skidding across the floor to match his outburst.

“Didn’t I grow out of throwing tantrums by now? McCree says, exasperated. Lord, maybe he had been judging Reyes too harshly after all these years. He pockets the miniature chronal accelerator. Instinct tells him it’s likely the key to getting him back to his proper time. Hopefully he doesn’t fuck up his own past too much. Time-displacement mumbo-jumbo hadn’t been a problem he anticipated. He should’ve asked Lena more about it, but like most things related to time, it’s too late now.

He pauses, thoughtful. Or maybe it isn’t.

McCree picks a chair-like piece of defunct equipment and takes a seat. “Don’t you wanna know how life’s gonna be for you?”

Jesse looks at him up and down, mouth curling. “I’m seein’ it. Not exactly impressed. What’s with the hair? That ain’t no Clint Eastwood.”

“Woah there,” McCree says, a little hurt. He runs a hand along his jaw, suddenly self-conscious. “ _Wow_.”

“Blackwatch kicked you out or something?” Jesse asks with a vicious smile, but the sneer doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a note of bitterness in his voice that is far too preemptive for his time.

 _Ah. There it is._ McCree reads him easy, just like an old forgotten journal. It makes his chest twinge, just a little, but it also annoys him.

With a huff, McCree points to the floor. “Alrighty then. You will oblige me by taking a seat right there.”

“No,” Jesse says, immediate, but his shoulders hunch up when he catches McCree pulling out a small tablet from his pocket. “Why?”

“Wanna show you something. It’d be easier if we were both sitting on the ground.” McCree slides from his makeshift chair and settles himself on the floor. He places the tablet in front of him, flicking on the flat screen. “Or you can stand. Don’t matter none to me.”

Jesse looks down at him. A second passes in stormy silence and he joins McCree on the floor, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. The boyish posture makes McCree glance sidelong at him before he presses a button, and the tablet projects an array of three-dimensional icons in front of them.

“What’s…” Jesse starts to say, but he trails off, eyes wide. They are surrounded by hundreds of whole images, too tiny to see clearly. The soft light chases away the dim gloom of the storage room, giving it a touch of mismatched color, none of them the threatening shade of hard-light blue. His arms slip from their hold around his knees to peer up, almost as if the ceiling at had turned into a starry night sky.

Glimpses of McCree’s life float by; a couple of selfies hovering down below, multiple group photos scattered all around. Moving pictures of places that aren’t the desert.

“August. Twenty fifty-eight,” McCree tells the projector. The images sort themselves out into a neat grid. A lot of things had happened that August of 2058. He glances them over, a little fascinated himself. It’s been years. He hasn’t thought to look at these in a while.

Beside him, Jesse has gone silent.

McCree nudges his younger self in friendly encouragement. “Go on. Have a look.”

Technology hasn’t changed so drastically over McCree’s lifetime. Jesse is a quick study. He reaches out, finger pointing to a single image that catches his interest. His hand splays over the holographic picture, fingers digging through the floating pixels as the quick motion of his palm enlarges the image.

Jesse chooses a group picture, because of course he would. The picture shows the original core of Overwatch members, caught by McCree’s unsteady camera work. McCree remembers how no one had paid any attention; the image captures a moment of unguarded expressions—a smile, the beginnings of a laugh, a look of surprise, a word half-formed in mid-conversation. A dull ache hits McCree in the chest and he looks away, down at his lap where his empty hands rest. In the picture, he’s only a blurry pair of crinkled eyes and a furrowed brow in the foreground, camera arm not quite long enough to include his entire face.

Jesse leans forward, studying carefully. He only knows half the people in the picture, but this is his future, after all.

“I’ll be damned,” he finally says, turning over the image in his hands. His index finger flicks over the old, dead face of Gabriel Reyes. “He _does_ smile.”

McCree has forgotten, too. He hasn’t seen it in a very long time and isn’t likely to see it ever again. He glances at the photo. “That he does. On occasion.”

“That Amari’s kid in the corner?”

“Sure is. Ask her about little Amari junior sometime.”

Jesse scoffs. His fingers twitch over the hologram plane, dismissing the image for another one showing a wide, blue ocean dotted with the white sails of ships. He swipes again, and again, and again. Then, he stops and drops his arm, blinking.

McCree sits back, a little surprised by the photo himself. He never did get use to seeing himself in full military regalia, hair styled back smartly and not a thread out of place. His expression in the picture is calm and dutifully blank for the official portrait, though there hadn’t been any way to hide that rebellious spark in his eyes. Or the hat.

“I get dress blues?” Jesse asks, quieter. He doesn’t look at McCree.

“Oh. Yeah,” McCree says, shrugging. “The whole damn suit and tie with all the trimmings. Shiny medals too.”

Jesse tears his eyes away from the picture, glancing at McCree, and McCree uneasily thinks Jesse might ask where those dress blues are now. McCree isn’t wearing anything military, just his usual mercenary garb, and he hasn’t been wearing any kind of medals for years. Wouldn’t want to either, even with the Recall initiated.

But Jesse’s face is flushed with emotion. He keeps looking at the photo.

“...Okay,” he says, wonderingly, voice gone quiet. “I didn’t think I would—how someone like me could…” He trails off.

McCree’s mouth draws into a thin line. It happens like this; confidential Blackwatch paperwork, lost documents within the UN, secret missions the public will never know about. They will make a hero out of Jesse in a way only Blackwatch would do.

But Jesse doesn’t need to know any of that. Not right now.

“Yeah,” McCree only replies, because he recognizes this will mean a lot in the upcoming weeks—on difficult days when training is too rough, when Reyes’ voice lashes out, the court days when he has to sell out the rest of the Deadlock Gang.  No other friends in the meantime, not until he learns. “You’ll do alright, kid.”

Jesse doesn’t answer him. Instead he lowers his voice, makes it gruffer with the slightest bit more rasp. It’s more than a passable imitation of McCree.

He tells the tablet, “September. Twenty fifty-six.”

He guesses correctly the tablet is protected with voice recognition. A single picture pops up from that month, curiously sepia-toned from a silly filter someone wanted.

McCree blinks, staring up at it with a crooked smile. _Clever idiot._

It’s another group photo of the team, taken weeks from what must be Jesse’s perception of his present time.

“That’s me,” Jesse says numbly, staring at himself. And it _looks_ his age, as if it could have been taken tomorrow, or yesterday. And there’s something different about looking into the very near future and not years from now. His own young face is caught in mid-laugh with Reinhardt’s hand resting on his shoulder, surrounded by smiling people he will get to know real soon, if only he gives it a shot.

A hundred pictures, and somehow this one’s the most believable, the one that makes Jesse’s breathing go ragged and his eyes clouded. He bends his head, glaring hard at the ground until he grinds the palm of his hand into one eye. He brushes back his disheveled hair, fingers curling to pull at the strands.

“I’m okay?” he says, mostly to himself. His voice cracks, the smallest hitch in his words, barely there. “I’m going to be okay?”

He is starting to remember too much of this, all feelings of being displaced and lost. McCree shifts to the side, bringing his arm around Jesse’s shoulders. For once, Jesse doesn’t resist being pulled in.

With a sudden conviction that surprises even himself, McCree presses his lips to Jesse’s forehead. It’s a familiar parental gesture from years ago, more sensory than actual memory. It seems like something his younger self would miss, even if he will not admit it. McCree doesn’t remember if he dreams about it, at the age of eighteen. He already knows he won’t at thirty-seven.

“It won’t be easy,” he murmurs into Jesse’s hair. A fair warning.

Jesse stirs under his arm before he abruptly moves away from McCree’s hold. His face is beet-red, mouth opening in wordless embarrassment. His hand lifts up to touch his own forehead.

“It’s fine,” McCree says hastily, turning red himself. “Nothin’ weird about it, alright?”

“Oh,” Jesse says, looking relieved. He drops his hand slightly, peering up at McCree from beneath his messy fringe. “Good.”

Before McCree can say anything else, Jesse lurches forward and yanks him by the serape. Their mouths clash together, hard and fast. Panicked, confused thoughts whirl inside McCree’s head until he feels Jesse’s lips part against his closed mouth and McCree almost makes a grab for the flashbang in his holster.

Instead, he pushes Jesse away with his metal arm, so forcefully Jesse utters a curse from the tight grip.

“Woah, _woah_ , that’s not what I meant,” McCree sputters, letting him go. “That’s—oh, sweet Jesus. No.”

Jesse rubs his cheek with the palm of his hand, glaring at McCree like _he’s_ the one to blame. Apparently the beard will be a thing he thinks twice about. He sits up, scowling. If he had been blushing before, he’s practically the color of McCree’s serape now.

“You ain’t gonna teach me how to kiss proper?” Jesse demands. “ _Time Traveler’s Wife_ and all that? C’mon I know we’ve read it, and seen the old movie.”

At McCree’s horrified expression, Jesse grabs his arm. “I don’t mean to go _that_ far. And I know for a sure fact you’ve been eighteen before.”

McCree makes an ‘ _ehh_ ’ sound, upturning his palms and shrugging. He doesn’t even want to touch the subject.

“What about Gino?” Jesse asks, switching tactics.

“Who?” McCree blurts out in return. He thinks quickly back to his younger years and all his younger crushes. The name Gino sends vague memories of a handsome face, clearly out of his league at the time. His stomach lurches, mortified. He has gone whole ten years without thinking back on it. Until now. “No!”

“Salal?”

“Quit it.”

“Klahan?”

Dead before anything could have happened. McCree doesn’t answer, but Jesse moves on, misinterpreting McCree’s morose silence for a future love life in complete shambles. Which is to say, grossly inaccurate.

“Cecil?” Jesse tries again, voice going high in desperation and fear.

“That cheatin’ son of a _bitch_ ,” McCree hisses, with more spite than he means to.

“Hoo-kay, so not him. Thanks for the heads up. So what about Ju-”

To hell with it. Anything to get him to shut up. McCree mutters something ugly under his breath and grabs Jesse by the collar.

“Keep your eyes closed. Remember to breathe,” he orders, and kisses his younger self square on the mouth.

Jesse startles against him, hands coming down to brace against the floor, but he quickly recovers. What little experience he already has takes the form of pushing McCree back with more enthusiasm than technique. McCree winces. He does the mental gymnastics and comes to one simple conclusion; might as well not waste the opportunity to give advice. Lord, he is going to need it.

He breaks off the kiss, running his thumb along Jesse’s jaw. The soft pressure tips Jesse’s head to one side, and Jesse opens his eyes, stilling as McCree’s hand moves to the back of his neck.

“Breathe, darlin’,” McCree murmurs, and corrects the angle. He presses his lips to the corner of Jesse’s mouth as Jesse takes his breath. “Now, pay attention.”

Though, he thinks wryly, there isn’t a lot he can actually teach. McCree certainly hasn’t fussed too deeply about how he kisses. He only knows what he likes and doesn’t like about _being_ kissed, but maybe that’s a good start as any.

He likes his kisses with some heat and a little teeth. A little sloppy, a little wet. He knows to mind his beard and doesn’t make any sweeping movements, always a slight lift or tilt of his head to avoid any unnecessary scratching. He likes the feeling of hands on his face or at his throat so he gently takes Jesse’s hands and places one against his cheek and leans into the palm. Jesse’s fingers tangle through his hair, tugging insistently, and McCree adds that one to the list as well.

Jesse lets out a soft noise from his throat and McCree feels a slight rumble in his chest. He nips at Jesse’s bottom lip, letting him feel his grin against his mouth, and eases back.

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Got it?”

Jesse’s eyes flutter open. His hands are still clasped on both sides of McCree’s face. He lets go, dazed. “Uh, yeah.”

McCree shakes his head. _Well._ That one’s for the books. He allows Jesse to pull himself together for a moment while he pats around for his hat. He touches Jesse’s first, leather edges still sharp and color unfaded. McCree snorts, tossing it towards his younger self.

“Hey,” Jesse protests weakly, but he puts it on, tugging the brim down in an almost bashful gesture. His face is still red.

“It’ll survive,” McCree says wryly. He nabs his tablet in the meantime and accidentally catches Jesse’s unguarded expression of panic.

“Wait,” Jesse says, grabbing McCree by the serape again.

McCree stares at him, uncomprehending. There’s a burning in his chest, white hot and painful. Jesse’s eyes go wide, mouth falling open in surprise, and McCree lets out an involuntary, pained gasp.

 _This is it_ , McCree thinks. The devil is coming for him and he is going to Hell. He’s gone and committed a thousand crimes and killed a whole lot of people for it, but apparently kissing his much younger self is going to be the final straw.

“That thing’s glowing,” Jesse says, interrupting his thoughts. He shakes McCree by the shoulder. “You all right?”

McCree looks down. The chronal accelerator in his front pocket is pulsing a vivid shade of sky-blue through his shirt. The source of his pain becomes abruptly apparent, though he isn’t quite sure if he’d rather have that, or take his chances with the devil now.

His body begins to blur, blinking with smattering of broken-light pixels. In front of him, Jesse looks on with the faintest hint of fear in his eyes.

“It’ll be fine,” McCree wants to say, but his voice comes out like static. He can’t move.

But he has always been quick on the uptake, even at eighteen.

Jesse’s hand slips through his shoulder. The kid seems at a loss for words but he leans close, unaffected by the chronal accelerator. With a determined frown, he puts his lips to McCree’s forehead, mirroring that same childhood gesture, though neither can feel each other.

“You did good,” he says to McCree, barely audible over the white noise. “I think I can tell.”

And McCree disappears.

* * *

Nepal’s mountain air is sharp and thin. He opens his eyes to bright sunlight and cold snow from behind. McCree sucks in an icy breath, feeling his lungs protest from overexertion. His chest is burning and his forehead tingles like static across his brow.

“Oh, hello,” Tracer says, looking positively distressed beneath her goggles. Or on the tail end of being distressed. Scratch that, she looks relieved beyond words. “Gave us a right fright there, McCree.”

“Yeah, well,” McCree grunts, sitting up. “Gave myself a good scare too.”

The rest of their small team surround him; Reinhardt’s hand falls on his shoulder while Ana stands nearby, ready to shoot McCree in the ass with a bionic healing bullet if he shows even one scratch. Winston lumbers over to excitedly explain the intricacies of McCree’s apparent fuck up with a broken teleporter.

Well. At least the mission had been a success.

McCree closes his eyes, suddenly exhausted. He misses Commander Reyes, for some odd reason. He feels like he is missing a lot of things all of a sudden.

A light touch at his forehead startles him back to full consciousness.

“Forgive me,” Genji says, hastily withdrawing his hand. “But I am picking up hard-light particles on my sensors.” He motions to his own forehead, guiding McCree.

McCree doesn’t know if Genji had been that silent to sneak up on him, or if he had momentarily blacked out. He reaches up to brush his hand across his temples and pulls it back to see a streak of broken hard-light particles in his palm.

It’s nearly invisible against the white glare of snow, but the clouded buzzing in his head begins to fade.

“There,” Genji says, satisfied, and stands back up to let the more medically-inclined fuss over McCree.

McCree sighs, letting Ana give him a proper dressing down for being so idiotic. It’s a comfort, honest to God.  He glances down at his open palm, hard-light particles still floating over his skin. His curls his hand into a fist and the particles disappear for good.

He apologizes to Ana, and then to the rest of the team for worrying them with a sheepish wave.  He also promises Winston he'd give a full report about his broken teleporter adventure, which should be easy, seeing as he doesn't remember a thing.

But before they all take off to their next mission, McCree lingers behind the group and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his tablet.  He stares at it, oddly compelled to open the old image files and have a look. 

Shaking his head, he sets the camera, aims the lens to focus over his team, and snaps a picture.


End file.
